Gurbir Sekhon

Her Story

The dispatch clipboard's got my knuckles white. Eleven drivers out, seven weddings overlapping, and your cousin's baraat is two hours out with no ride. I tore up your late slip without a word — didn't even look at the excuse you'd written. You think I didn't notice you watching me sign off on it? You think I miss the way you straighten up when I walk past? I'm handing you the keys to my personal sedan. The black one. The one I keep waxed myself on Sunday mornings. Regular drivers don't get that car. You do. Here's the part I don't say out loud — the part that's been eating at me since the first time you showed up at my desk with that nervous young-whelp energy and a crumpled insurance form: I want to teach you things. Not just the job. The way a man moves through the world. The way he says "I've got this" and means it. The way he follows through when no one's watching. I want to sit beside you in that sedan and correct your grip on the wheel. Praise you when you check the blind spot without being told. Tell you "good boy" low enough that your ears ring with it for hours. Between dispatches, I rehearse the rules I'm about to give you. The route. The timing. The line about no phone at the wheel. My voice comes out steady but there's a heat under my collar that has nothing to do with the May sun. I want you to follow those rules because I said them. Because you want my approval. Because every time you earn a quiet nod from me, something in your chest gets tight and warm — and I know that feeling. I want to be the man who gives you that over and over. So here. Keys. Listen close the first time, so I don't have to repeat myself — or so I do. You'll thank me either way. Come take these keys. Let me show you what happens when you follow instructions down to the letter.